


Long Time in the Making

by two_ff



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Torture, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-01-15 07:00:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12316092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/two_ff/pseuds/two_ff
Summary: Rated [per AO3 policies] for later school years.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rated [per AO3 policies] for later school years.

**FIRST YEAR**

 

Having recognized Harry Potter’s love for wallowing with undesirables, Draco redirected his efforts away from cultivating the scar-headed git as an acquaintance and towards establishing his own reputation and influence within a school that generations of his ancestors had controlled as students and trustees. According to one of the living ancestral portraits he’d been unwillingly tutored by before Hogwarts, Salazar Slytherin raised his share of the school’s start-up funding by negotiating a deal and a vow with a great-great-grandsomething Malfoy; the terms bordered on murderous. In his mind, Draco cocooned himself in the confidence of his position and his success in all academic endeavors — intellectual, social and political. Potter and his dysfunctional group of incompetents and untouchables would rue the day Harry declined Draco’s charitable offer of friendship; he’d see them crawling before year-end.

 

 _No_ _one_  denied Draco Malfoy what he wanted.

 

Being young, Draco had yet to learn that the world will as it wont and not always as those with resources, influence and power desire.

Thus when marks were posted at winter hols and Draco sat at #2 behind one of Potter’s undesirables, Draco panicked privately behind the custom-made curtains on his custom-made bed, fearful of leaving for home and a man who would discipline him harshly for “ _missing_  the mark”, so to speak. To fall short of #1 was bad enough, but Draco fell behind the one student guaranteed to prolong the beatings Draco now couldn’t avoid.

 

The Mudblood sealed his fate with her know-it-all attitude and her relentless passion to win.

 

Shaking like a leaf at the voice of his father, who was beyond angry at having to retrieve his son from Slytherin’s dungeons, Draco considered that had Hermione Granger’s blood not been polluted, she’d have been a worthy addition to his list for fun, courtship and marriage.

* * *

**SECOND YEAR**

 

Having secured the starting Seeker’s spot on Slytherin’s Quidditch team (albeit a year after Potlicker accomplished the same for  _Gryffindork_ ), Draco basked in the attention from other Slytherins and those in houses without Potthead lackeys whose lips seemed attached to the son-of-a-Mudblood's myopic arse. A Malfoy had played for the "Green & Silver", most often at Seeker ( _the_  most skilled position on  _any_  Quidditch team), for centuries and Draco pointed any doubters to the trophy cases in the corridors leading to the dungeons. 

That the Gryffindor trophies exceeded those in Slytherin’s case, by three  _times_  their number, did not concern Draco. His six-year tenure, he was convinced, would be marked by unparalleled Slytherin success.

Heady with thoughts of his unassailable achievements (despite not having played a  _single_  match yet), Draco made a tactical error and attacked the Mudblood Granger in a good-natured way. He felt justified in this as he told Crabbe and Goyle — 

 

“Saint Potter, the Mudbloods' friend... He's another one with no proper wizard feeling, or he wouldn't go around with that jumped-up Granger Mudblood.”

 

She’d no business defending that group of losers in public and embarrassing Draco — who’d, once again, underestimated her ability to reason, argue and lecture in real-time. He’d nearly gotten his bearings when she utterly destroyed him with her assertion that Lucius’ donation of spanking brand new Nimbus 2001’s had more to do with Draco’s inclusion on the team than his skills or heritage as a Seeker — the position that overly-popular occularly-challenged orphan in her House  _also_  played last year. Thanks to the wanker’s enviable luck, he’d beaten Draco in becoming the youngest to play the position: this despite Draco being months younger. Taunting an opponent was a time-honored Quidditch tradition which said Mudblood would, of course, have no tradition of.

 

In tears in his bed behind  _Silencio_ ’d silk-lined velvet curtains, Draco decided the Mudblood had no right to disparage his hard-won accomplishments.

His shoulder, repeatedly broken each time his father reviewed the team's defeats on the new brooms, no longer throbbed on his return after spring hols.

* * *

**THIRD YEAR**

 

Having established that he could, indeed, manipulate situations to his own end (like generations of Malfoys and Blacks before him — and despite taking an injury to an arm his father had broken and restored each time that Mudblood outperformed his marks; they were well into a third year of similar results and parental abuse), Draco preened like the cock of the walk at his ability to unsettle Potboy and his pathetically persistent sect of sycophants. All his failures to gain their compliance (if not their honest  _respect_ ) paled into wisps of memory. The 50-points lost to their botched Dementor prank would soon be redeemed; Hagrid would be dismissed and Buckbeak — who deigned to accept Harry-Fucking-Potter and  _not_  Draco “The Prince” Malfoy — would be  _dead_. A two-fer would restore his reputation school-wide and diminish the acclaim heaped on Hogwarts' “Basilisk Butchers” for saving those fucking Mudbloods who shouldn’t be allowed in  _his_  school.

 

Hogwarts’ Chief Mudblood, however, couldn’t leave well enough alone and allow Draco this  **one**  victory —  _oh_   _no_ ; she had to react to his gloating with a fist to his face in front of her protectors and his posse. Another moment of mortification etched itself into the history of the Prince of Slytherin vs. the Mudblood Swot of Gryffindor.

Tearfully fuming at another opportunity wasted, Draco missed her late-night entrance into the hushed halls of the Infirmary.

 

“Malfoy?”

 

Only Merlin arriving to bugger him unconscious could make this day worse. He silently begged the demented deity not to reveal his disgrace to his father, offering up his only remaining virginal entry in exchange for keeping his secret.

 

“I… I owe you an apology — not that you didn’t deserve it… I had no right to hit you. I’m… Ugh!! _Why_ is this so  hard!? I’ve never been provoked to violence by ANYONE, Malfoy! Not even Ron Weasley! Why can’t you just leave us  **alone**!? Unless we’re paired on a project, we needn’t ever interact!”

 

The body in the bed gave no indication of awareness — an excellent performance.

 

“You won’t remember this, I suppose — not with all those potions, but you need to hear it: I’m sorry, Malfoy. I hope you feel better.”

 

Clicking heels matched the pounding in his head; he’d waited out her groveling before downing his pain potion which slowly stole his consciousness but left his confusion at her behaviour intact.

* * *

**FOURTH YEAR**

 

Having made an appearance, danced and snogged with Pansy “The Stalker” Parkinson and completely lost his bottle when a stunningly beautiful Mudblood floated elegantly down the main stairs to the Yule Ball, Draco made his escape to the dungeons to relieve the imperative throbbing in his trousers.

 

The intrepid Gryffindor made a last circuit of the Great Hall before spying her target. Tailored robes gave him away as he headed for one of the more deserted stairwells.

Alternately tripping and dropping the gown fabric she bunched in her hands, Hermione cast wordless silencing and door-locking charms in rapid succession; her quarry now hurried to nowhere.

Increasingly intense  _Alohomora_  spells merely sparked and sent painful shocks back up Draco’s wand hand and arm.

 

“Whoever you are, unlock this fucking door before I  _Avada_  your arse.”

“Not,” she panted, having finally caught up, “until I talk to you — and I don’t need an Unforgiveable to stop you.”

 

Cool eyes, neither blue nor grey, studied her.

 

“I have nothing to say to you, Mudblood”

 

Her infamous temper — the one that reconfigured his nose and led to another one-sided confrontation with his father — made no appearance, to his puzzlement.

 

“You saved me… At the Quidditch World Cup. You warned us — in that smarmy, arrogant way of yours — that your father and the other Death Eaters were attacking Muggle-borns. Harry and Ron would have fought to protect me and probably lost. I want to know  _why_.”

 

The sneer returned.

 

“I thought you three would make better entertainment if you knew they were hunting you.”

“No need to be an arse, Draco. I don’t hate you; I hate the way you treat people… I wanted to know why, to see if you’d changed. But I guess I was wrong about you. Thanks, anyway. I didn’t relish being tortured like those Muggles were…” 

 

Her hand waving in mid-air caused the snap of lock-bolts to their unlocked position. Draco gaped in amazement at the power emanating from the witch’s fingertips without word or wand.

Hermione stunned him with abilities only pure-blood witches were supposed to exhibit.

Draco stunned her with his frankly appreciative look and the slow, genuine smile spreading across his face as he stared.

 

The blush climbing her exposed swan-like neck and pretty freckled face joined her embarrassed grin as she ascended the stairs — one tripping step at a time…

* * *

**FIFTH YEAR**

 

Having achieved more this year than in any other, Draco patrolled the hallways and stairways of Hogwarts looking to increase Slytherin’s unassailable lead in House points. 

 

The year couldn’t go better without a barrel of  _Felix Felicis_  (which Snape  **refused**  to teach them to brew). 

Merlin’s kindness bestowed Prefect’s badges on himself and Pansy — and NOT on Tri-Wizard Champion Nutcase Harry Plotter. Baiting the red-headed charity case and The-Boy-Who-Wanted-His-Dead-Mummy into a fight assured Slytherin the House Cup. Draco’s new favorite DADA teacher banned the Gryffindorks from Quidditch, leaving Weasley with no help and no brains — Draco even penned a jaunty cheer, “Weasley Is Our King”, about the situation.

October improved on September when Dolores Umbridge named Draco to her Inquisitorial Squad, thus giving him control over  **every**  student in the school. Most recently he’d caught Harry Punter sneaking out of a wall where no door stood. On his arse like a Seeker on a snitch, Draco hounded Dumbledore’s pet until the day Merlin went nutter…

 

Harry, Ron and Hermione were in custody.

 

Draco conducted a quiet but heated interchange with his prisoner while Crabbe and Goyle worked their two-celled brains through his hastily cast  _Confundus_  charm.

 

“Stay away from Scarhead — Umbridge has it out for him.”

“I’m not a possession or a child to be ordered about, Malfoy!” an incensed Hermione hissed back, full of piss and vinegar.

“Don’t you have enough sense to save yourself, you marble-headed bint!? There are DEATH EATERS watching the school!”

 

The argument slowed their progress to a standstill. While Harry and Ron worriedly watched over their shoulders, Hermione disappeared as the others turned the corner.

 

“Are you one?” she challenged.

“N-N-Not yet… But Father says I have to join!”

“No you DON’T! Talk to Dumbledore — he’ll protect you!”

“You really don’t get this, do you? I can’t keep saving your arse! Use those brains and keep your Mudblood head down, for fuck’s sake!”

 

Snatching his wand from his slack hand, Hermione swished a few harmless cuts and bruises onto her body. Swirling hints of caramel highlights in her whiskey-brown eyes softened her final words —

 

“So no one will know who you  _really_  are, Draco.”

 

Handing him back his wand, she struggled just enough to make his entourage and Umbridge happy about his bounty.

* * *

**SIXTH YEAR**

 

Having seen his father incarcerated, his mother reduced to a depressed mass of perpetual fear and his arm maimed (with a  _living_  dark emblem) in crazed repayment for Lucius’ error at the Department of Mysteries, Draco shored himself up for the task at hand and assured his mother he’d succeed. A suicidal mission seemed completely consistent with the shite his life became.

Never as brave as he pretended, Draco strategically chose to withdraw from interacting with his enemies and friends alike, fearful one of them would betray his awful assignment and consign his mother to death (or  _worse_ ). In between failures to accomplish his mission, the weight of anxiety drained his waning confidence. Thanks to his prior reputation and behaviours, the only people who noticed were bloody Gryffindors — one who suspected he had murder in mind and one who suspected he was scared out of his tree.

Sick with failure after another fruitless session with the non-working cabinet, Draco leaned back onto the sink to update Myrtle on the hopelessness of his life in general.

 

“Mother sent a note to be ‘cheerful’ “ he told the floating apparition, “because everything will ‘work out’. Aunt Bella sent a howler screaming at me not to be a fucking loser like my cowardly father. And the cabinet STILL isn’t working because —”

“Can I help?”

 

In reflection stood Hermione Granger in a place he’d never noticed her before.

 

“Why the fuck are you here, Mudblood!?”

 

Undaunted, she kept a steady pace towards him.

 

“This is the  _Girls_ ’ bathroom, Draco. Why are  _you_  here talking to Myrtle?”

 

The moody spectre whinged — “ _Why shouldn’t he talk to me_?”.

 

“That’s not what I meant, Myrtle,” the kindly prefect corrected.

“How did you find me?”

“Mafalda. She gossips with Myrtle. Loves to rub my nose in her pure-blood status. Do you want my help?”

“No, Granger, I’m fine on my own!”

 

Tears dashing down his cheeks in an avalanche said otherwise.

 

“Not from where I’m standing. I know you’re after someone in the school. The questions are ‘who’ and ‘why’? Is it me, Draco?”

“You’re not important enough for the Dark Lord —”

 

She interrupted his lousy lie.

 

“Harry’s hellbent on stopping Voldemort. You  _know_  that. You  _know_  I’m helping Harry. Is it me you’re trying to hurt, Draco?”

“No…” he mumbled out, hoping to end this miserable day in a manner that kept his mother and himself breathing.

“Talk. To. Dumbledore,” she commanded as her soft hand stoked his back under his rumpled shirt, said shirttail having wriggled out during his gymnastics to fix that damned nonfunctioning cabinet.

 

The heat coming off Hermione, Draco noticed, raised his body temperature for the first time since they’d held him down and carved that writhing tattoo into his unblemished flesh. Abandoning it all gained greater appeal in the confines of that haunted bathroom — if anyone could save his mother from their hideously misplaced loyalties, Dumbledore and Hermione Granger would top his list. Hope rose steadily in his chest…

… until reality and cowardice returned in equal parts.

 

“I can’t, Hermione… The Dark Lord will kill my mother! He’s punishing my father and He Will  **KILL**  her if I fail!”

 

Having never used it before, Voldemort’s worst Death Eater witnessed the power of her given name on his lips as she invaded his space, shoring up his quavering knees and wavering will to live with a simple kiss. Warm arms engulfed him, letting him cry it out with a human and not a ghost…

…and that led to the kiss that changed the future.

Her body tingled in ways it never had when Ron was snogging  _her_  and not Lavender Brown. Limited experience had no impact; her body used instinct to fold into him, escalating the tingling to a slow burn. The rumble of a groan in his chest gave her head control again.

 

“Why me, Draco?”

 

Discussion shadowed another mind-numbing kiss.

 

“Because you embarrassed me about the brooms. Because you hit me for being a little shite about Buckbeak.”

 

On its own, his hand skimmed over her stomach, headed for her breast. On arrival, his thumb lazed over the small nub protruding through her jumper.

 

“Because,” he confessed, “you know what it’s like to be hated.”

 

A moan, wanton and frightened at the same time, escaped her and the arm he’d snaked around her pulled her into the evidence of his interest. Something good was about to happen to him — and he decided that was  _bad_  for his situation outside of this bathroom.

 

“Because you’ve always known who you are. Because you know what I am and yet… you’re here.”

 

Hermione’s hand accidentally grazed Draco’s distended zipper and both succumbed to the situation. His hand breached the boundary of her skirt and her knickers, the first young man to do so.

 

“You’ve always been… kind. And brilliant. And very… very… pretty, Hermione.”

 

A single instant of unwanted clarity struck him again and he hesitated. Hermione gathered her thoughts first. Much rode on their next decisions.

 

“What about Pansy?” she whispered through the haze of unaccustomed arousal.

“She’s a Slytherin. She understands competition.”

“What about Ron?” she asked  _him_  instead of herself.

“Despite my stunning looks, I’m not into Ron.” 

 

Arrogance made an ideal shield in these situations.

 

“Draco, I’m… I’ve never…”

 

Her soaked knickers vanished as he lifted her by her bum. Her intimate scent alone wiped her blood status clear out of his head.

 

“Wrap your legs around me.”

“Draco!” she barked “I’m a —”

“I  _know_ , Hermione,” he brusquely cut her confession off. “I won’t hurt you,” and he protected them both (lest he create  _more_  people relying on his nonexistent courage and ingenuity) before placing himself at her entrance.

“Do you trust me?”

 

Worrying her lip, she nodded twice then rushed out with —

 

“Just do it. Please…”

 

However awful the year had been, he’d gained (for no reason he could fathom) something tangible — her trust,. 

Desperate, anxious and alone for the first time in his indulged life, Draco’s only recent comfort came from his most obstinate opponent. That thought propelled his hips forward to impale her. Her sudden inhalation confirmed she’d been breached; he held himself unmoving until she adjusted to the first-time fullness within her. 

 

“Should I stop?” he spoke to the tears on her face.

“No. I’m a bit…  _tender_.”

 

Nipping bites to her ear distracted her from the stinging of her broken, bleeding virginity.

 

“I promise I’ll make this good for you.”

 

For once in his pampered life, Draco realized, he would apply himself to someone else’s enjoyment.

After a  _Silencio_  and a  _Disillusionment_  charm followed by a locking spell, he stripped them bare and set to exploring her body. Learning about her settled him, as did the gift of her first orgasm driven solely by the rhythm of his own pleasure instrument inside of her. Air whooshed from her lungs with his release, when it came, from within his smothering embrace. Anxiety and loneliness escaped with the seed that painted her canal.

Lightly stroking his cheek with the backs of her fingers, Hermione confirmed their singularly irrational act hadn’t made things worse for him —

 

“Feel better?”

“ _Yeah_ …”

 

Telling the truth was infinitely easier than tracking lies across multiple situations.

 

Unwilling to add to his burden, the compassionate Gryffindor gave him an out —

 

“We don’t have to —”

“I want to see you again.”

 

His decision required no real thought: this would be —  _she_  would be — his refuge until he could whisk them all away from the half-blood, snake-faced psychopath architecting Draco’s death by “misadventure”.

 

“Draco, I don’t think —”

“Good!” the mercurial heir flung back, “Don’t  **think**. Meet me. Wherever you feel safe.” 

“Let me help you, Draco…”

 

He could not accept her assistance so he’d settle for the rest of her.

* * *

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**SEVENTH YEAR**

 

Having Voldemort as an uninvited houseguest alongside his mother’s nut-job sister and his escaped-convict father forced creative non-magical jail breaks from his palatial incarceration in Malfoy Manor, a place Draco used to call “home”. 

Of all his school years at Hogwarts, this easily achieved “ _Worst Year of My Life_ ” award-winning status. He’d not even been allowed to return to the school, having failed miserably at assassinating Albus Dumbledore —  _bloody hell_ … he’d been about to let the manipulative bastard of a headmaster persuade him to switch sides, something unthinkable before undeserved kindness and swirling mocha-brown eyes entered his extravagant but empty life.

Leaving the confines of this luxury prison became possible because of a small, unobtrusive coin that occasionally (as in nowhere near as often as he’d like) warmed and shook in his shirt pocket. The notification’s spontaneity and unpredictability prevented him from keeping it with other coins in his trousers; he’d been hexed in punishment once too often for interrupting the Dark Looney’s rants and murderous meetings, at their dining table, by the jiggling galleons in his pocket. Every shirt in his wardrobe sported a skin-facing surround to hide his only link to life away from genocide.

When the coin activated, Draco found non-magical means to escape his gilded prison and make his lily-livered way to her.

 

Determined to enjoy himself, tonight they’d shared the stars that traversed the sky over the Burrow in summer, both lying on a pallet made of their transfigured clothing. Aware that this tryst could be their last (as Harry sought the death of Draco’s living nightmare), he’d made tender love to Hermione, unable to verbally express his disinterest in remaining in a world without the young woman he hated…

Ever the swot, she pointed heavenward with a question — “Where’s your constellation?”

The constellation’s namesake pointed to the north before answering — “There. See the Dipper? That’s the tail. Follow the s-curve up the handle and around and that’s the dragon.”

Hermione chewed on this as she did with all things knowledge. Standing — then yanking — the languid prat up, she dressed slowly, allowing him one last look at her supple and shapely body to last until the next time… if there is one.

 

“‘ _Dragon’._  I like that for you —”

“My name is ‘Draco’, despite its meaning. Don’t fuck with my name, Granger.”

 

She’d hit a pure-blood sore spot and Draco could tell she had no intention of backing off.

 

“— and I  _might_  have it tattooed across my bottom.”

 

Draco loved her little bump of a bum and would gladly read anything written on it, even in the pitch black of a moonless night. The thought had him hard as granite and jealous of a yet-to-be-hired inker.

 

“If anyone but me  _ **touches**_  your arse, I’ll have their bollocks in a jar before they get a good look.”

 

This was better than most of their goodbyes since Voldemort banned Muggle-borns from her beloved Hogwarts. She’s laughing teasingly and he’s not on the verge of tears at having to leave her for Malfoy Manor.

Whilst he considered this, her body bonded to his for a final kiss: all tongue and lips; swishing and tasting. The power from it slammed his eyelids shut like magical self-closing curtains and when he regained conscious thought, she’d gone back to the crooked house owned by his not-distant-enough underprivileged cousins.

 

The fall of the Ministry and the raid on Bill Weasley’s wedding had him vomiting in fear for her.

 

While Hermione hid from the genuine threat of extermination, Draco cajoled her (by misusing their agreed-upon protocol) to meet him in the small shelter he’d hidden in the park across from Number 12 Grimmauld, the house that should have been his mother’s. Occasionally he passed what information he could — it had been Draco who insisted Al Runcorn and Mafalda Hopkirk where better targets for her ridiculous scheme to retrieve a locket.

 

“Get your head out of that lovely arse of yours, Granger! Your best chance of getting NEAR Umbridge is Runcorn — he’s the hound she’s collared to weed out Muggle-borns. I guarantee on Mother’s life he’ll be wherever  _she_  is!”

“And what makes you think we need to find Umbridge, you greasy **git**!?”

“ _Ooo_ ;” he snarked back, “Got a mouth on you, you have. Because Kreacher, despite being willed to Ron Weasley’s boyfriend, remains loyal to the Blacks by  **blood**  magic. I **ASKED** him.”

 

He let smug chasten her until she paled.

 

“Draco… if anyone else finds out…”

“Relax, Granger. Kreacher loathes Potter so he willingly answered all my questions. Never thought the ‘Boy Blunder’ would curl up with a nursery blanket to sleep. The mental image gives one tremors. Some 'saviour'…”

“ _Dra -gon_…” she drawled out in impatience.

“ ** _You_** , however, have conquered the knurly old curmudgeon with your kindness. Wouldn’t tell me a thing about your plans. You’ve got him punishing himself for ever calling you a Mudblood.”

 

Prolonged separation clouded her memory of Draco's preternatural hearing — “ _Wish I could do the same to you sometimes_ …”

 

“I **HEARD** that, Granger! And it’s ‘ _ **DRACO**_ ’. I have almost no knowledge from the elf about your strategy. What I  _do_  know is you need something in the Ministry. Given Thickness is  _Imperius_ ’d, your next best bet is Umbridge. She’s been running the Ministry since Fudge surrendered his sac during Fourth Year.”

“You might be right…” she deliberated, revising their plan with the new information.

“I AM right. I need that incompetent crew of yours alive if I’m ever to get my comfortable life back.”

“And us?”

 

This question, whether they had a future beyond desperation, came up more and more often from her. As he’d done over the last weeks, Draco applied his inner Slytherin to the answer.

 

“Survive, Granger. We’ll discuss the future when this horror has ended.”

 

* * *

 

Having feelings for the brains of the " _Saviour-of-the-Fucking-World_ ’s Back Office Squad" pissed Draco off. Without that little entanglement he wouldn’t be wandering around in the _woods_ in the  winter in the bloody **dark** trying to determine her condition. Sneaking away from the serial killers living in his house (without getting killed) tested the depth and breadth of his Slytherin skills and expensive education at Hogwarts. Merlin (Chief Magical Bastard, to Draco’s thinking) had taken a day off from his role as prankster, Draco concluded, when he put Severus Snape firmly in his life as a protector and teacher — it would have been too much like kindness to make the cunning, ugly professor his  _real_  father instead of the cowardly blonde ex-felon presently sulking like a neutered centaur back in the Manor.

Growing more irritated and concerned each minute, Draco seriously considered giving up when shouting and the strange sight of red hair with a vapid expression caught his wavering attentions. Before him stood an emotional Ronald Weasley, tearfully screaming apologies and banging on a wall that wasn’t there.

 

“Hermione,  ** _please_!**  I didn’t mean it! You know that bloody locket messes with me more than you or Harry. Hermione!  ** _Her-MY-nee_!** ”

 

Congratulations — to Weasel for getting himself thrown out by the most forgiving woman Draco knew, to Hermione for throwing the underserving cock-up out and to himself for being in the right place at the right time — would have to wait; Ron’s entreaty halted abruptly and the ginger git stood stock still staring at a point in space.

 

“Ronald, stop!” Draco heard Hermione hiss at her former boyfriend, “You’ll bring the Snatchers! Go… Go home and sort your priorities. Your no good to us or yourself until you do.”

“‘Mione, I know there’s nothing between you and… I mean, you’re friends and all…”

“You should go and sort this with your family,” she replied, not unkindly.

“What about you and Harry?”

 

The youngest Weasley son wondered how the duo would continue minus a wand (even if it was his). She answered to explain why this “quest” of Harry’s mattered.

 

“Don’t worry about us; we no longer have families, thanks to You-Know-Who.”

 

Weaslebee stared a moment more, hoping for some softening of her stance. No such luck. Draco’d admired that steel behind those brown eyes too many times — his least favorite cousin had _seriously_ pissed her off. Light-years ahead of “Wrong-ald” (if the ginger git had known light-years existed), Draco misused his coin once again, praying Hermione’s brains would keep her from revealing their secret notification technology.

Her eyes gave her away; his favorite swot’s gaze scanned the surrounding flora for him. Tapping his wand against the tree he hid behind, Draco flashed two quick  _Lumos_  spells in a manner she’d not mistake for a coincidence or a threat.

 

“I have to strengthen the wards and  _you_ ,” she emphasized with a finger to Ron’s chest, “have to go before you lead the Snatchers to us,” and with barely a look behind, she wound her way to the tree where Draco hid.

 

Countless minutes later he held a near-skeleton in his arms.

 

“Fuck, Granger! You’re skinny and freezing.”

“Any other ‘compliments'?”

“You smell like a hippogriff?”

 

The junior Lord gasped when she broke down, fist stuffed in her mouth and sobbing silently as if she practiced every night. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She was the strongest witch he knew. He’d come to  _seek_  comfort, not to  _give_  any out.

Huffing his displeasure at her failure to hold it together, the annoyed escapee from Maniac Manor half-dragged her to a small cavelike overhang. Furious flicks of his wand had them  _Disillusioned_ , warmed, alight and  _Silencio’d_  in short order.

 

“It’s H-H-HORrible!”

“Eat,” he ordered, revealing a veritable feast stolen from the Manor. A small, clean cauldron filled itself with a hearty vegetable and mystery-meat stew.

“Th-Th-Thank you,” she managed before devouring the too-hot stew straight from the pot. He’d cast a hasty cooling charm on her tongue to stop the damage.

“Careful, Granger! It’s not going anywhere.”

“So hungry! It’s been days,” she mumbled between slurps of the cooled nutrition, “Have to save some for Harry —”

“ **Like bloody hell you will!** Bolthead can look after himself.”

“That’s not —”

 

Suddenly selectively deaf, Draco instead made her a comfortable pallet, transfiguring blankets from swatches of fabric he’d brought for the purpose of shagging his own depression into remission.

 

“Lie down and sleep.”

“I have to get back. Harry will —”

 

If she remained this bloody disobedient after the war, assuming they both survived, he’d spank her without hesitation or remorse.

 

“Sleep, you obstinate bint. I will wake you in two hours, feed you again and provide a charity package of food and supplies for you to take back. Well done on throwing the Weasel out.”

 

If he ignored her tears, Draco decided, he could enjoy the removal of a rival.

 

“He LEFT; not my doing.”

 

The wealthier cousin made a mental note to send a “thank you” basket to the Weasleys — when they came out of hiding.

 

“Draco… Why are you —”

 

Tenderly laying her down, fully aware of the rough living healing itself over most of her body, he gave her the only answer he could at this point.

 

“You and your cross-eyed ‘Saint’ are my only hope of having a future I can enjoy. Survive, Granger, and kill that fucking semi-human, two-legged  ** _snake_**  threatening my parents.”

 

* * *

 

Having to lie _every day_  to the best  _Legillimens_  in Britain’s current cast of crazies drained the life from Draco daily — but he succeeded with Potter-the-Reckless-And-Ugly less than an inch in front of him, failing to speak the truth to a close relative who practically  _lived_  in Voldemort’s head. 

 

Unfortunately, Ronald Queasy’s presence made Hermione a shoo-in for “ _Most Wanted Mudblood_ ”. 

 

That situation ended with the two brave-but- _oh-so_ -stupid male Gryffindor junior terrorists in his ancestral dungeons and the girl he’d been leaking information to (without actually knowing  _why_  she needed it) spread-eagle, trapped in a shackling spell and spewing bullshite with every word (far better than he thought the rule-bound, truth-loving witch could). Not to mention she managed this while under the attentions of  Voldemort’s deranged second-in-command, the Dark Lord’s most dedicated lieutenant and  _lover_  — as in  _mother-of-the-snakeman’s-misbegotten-spawn_  kind of lover. When, exactly, his philandering aunt had removed Uncle Rodolphus’ bollocks and replaced them with some customized testicular “remote control”, Draco chose not to think upon lest he lose his lunch. Based on the frenetic energy Auntie “Bella” displayed as the Snatchers dragged in the Gobshite Trio, Draco gave his aunt props for her speedy recovery from the baby’s delivery. Rumor was the child had died — for which Draco praised Merlin and all the Druid deities.

Thus the Malfoy heir-apparent fumed that they’d been captured — despite every possible risk he’d taken to help Crack-Pott, the ginger git and Draco’s foolhardy witch finally end his own personal crises (for example, having a demented serial killer running the wizarding world from the Manor dining room). He shook in fear when he’d seen Hermione thrown to the floor to reenact a scene few had survived.

Any dollop of courage, drawn up in the shallow teaspoon of his dwindling intestinal fortitude, got tipped back into the puddle when Hermione decisively shook her filthy, tangled curls at him to prevent him from attempting a rescue (as if he’d intended to). He’d shamefully sighed in relief at her secret message — well aware of her prodigious talent for “saving the day” and his inability to place himself in harm’s way for _anyone_ but his mother. If she pulled off her own rescue  _this_  time, his arse would go with her and take his mother.

How surreal, he would ponder long after the chaos of her escape, that Dobby — his father’s former house elf (who’s loyalties were transferred  _by trickery_  to the Potted Savior) — claimed the title of hero and rescuer…

...but not before Draco’s heart and head shattered at the things done to his witch by his so-called family and friends…

So it occurred, not too many hours later, that Draco recklessly activated his coin carrying the rescued Gryffindor’s  _Protean_  charm (while Hermione strolled the invisible and unplottable property boundary of Shell Cottage, before sunset, to process her feelings on being tortured for who she was). Lost once again in some forest near her whereabouts, he missed the discomfort her coin’s warmth caused in her borrowed jeans. 

Casting a personal shield charm, she’d stepped past the protective barrier and entered the eerily beautiful woods surrounding the property’s perimeter. More than the tides made noise as night fell. She found him — stumbling blindly through the brush and yelling her name with a pathos unknown to him before this awful year began. 

 

“ _Draco! Shhh! I’m over here!_ ” 

 

Draco bristled at the sound of Ronald-the-Dolt’s voice in the distance, asking after  ** _his_**  witch.

 

“I’m fine, Ron. I just want some fresh air. Go back inside; I’ll be along later.”

 

Having seen the Weasel handled, Draco continued closing the distance between guilt and grace. Tripping and sniffling in a manner unbecoming of a Malfoy, he hauled himself up in front of her then crashed to his knees — sobbing and clinging to her legs like a lost child.

 

“I’m **sorry**! I should have — I’m sor-sor- **sorry**!” he blubbered and stammered on hitches of breath.

“Dragon… Dobby saved —”

 

— and by the time she reasoned out how she ended up on the ground, he’d covered her with his body.

 

“You deserve better… **I tried**! I  tried to protect you! I thought they’d let you go if I lied about Potter but that  _BITCH  _ **TORTURED**  you and I **DID**   _ **NOTHING**_!”

 

As she soothed him, running her still stinging fingers through his sweaty hair, he cast a  _Lumos_  to view first-hand the desecrations on her body.

Draco froze for an instant then reached for Hermione's arm. Her wound, weeping and still raw where his insane aunt had branded her, flared towards the tingling in his fingertips. Her injury sensed his Dark Mark’s powerful magic and sought it’s power.

Draco shuddered.

 

“ _Oh, Merlin_!” he choked out, “Oh, Merlin!  _Oh-Merlin-Oh-Merlin-Oh-Merlin_  —”

 

His litany continued with each new testament of trauma written in scars and bruises defacing her beautiful body — until she kissed him, passing acceptance, resilience and love through the chaste touching of lips.

 

“Make love to me, Draco… Please?”

 

Draco froze as the last functioning gear operating in his screwed-up head seized up at her demand (for it couldn’t be taken any other way given who said it and what happened not six hours ago in Malfoy Manor).

 

“You’re _hurt_. Y-Y-You must be exhausted after-after…” 

 

He cursed himself when the words he sought (for the most heinous of acts enacted upon her) hid within in the rubbish his brain had become. So he rewound the script and started over.

 

“The  _Cruciatus_  fucks with your head. You’ll hurt like hell for days, possibly weeks, even with pain potions.”

 

His look communicated his  _real_  message —   _Are you sure_?

 

And she kissed him, again.

 

“I want to  _feel_. To know that you still want me despite my being on the opposing side, disfigured and a Mudblood. If we still matter to each other, then the t-t-torture was worth it. If  _you_  don’t care about  _this_  —”

 

She brought her mutilated arm up beside his head and nearly banged the raw wound into his face. He understood.

 

“— then I don’t care about it either…”

 

Laying there, pinned into the soft earth, had to hurt her like hell, yet he remained motionless — staring at the woman she’d become.

It’s not like the decision to make love to her was really  _that_  difficult… 

Lowering his lips to her ear, he murmured words meant only for her, then set about easing her ache. Draco executed his apology in a way guaranteed to show his witch that tonight was not “Goodbye, Mudblood” by any means.

 

He kissed her cheek — “I’m sorry…”

 

Warmth. Moist air eddied around them inside the shield.

 

He kissed his way down her neck — “I’m sorry…”

 

Their dome’s sides opaqued, leaving a soft, hazy view of the trees over their hidden spot as a full moon chased away the drowsy sun.

 

He kissed the discolored bruises on her shoulder — “I’m  _sorry_ …”

 

Skipping the obvious targets on her face and front, he kissed his way down the arm sporting that hideous war memorial. Reverently, he spelled her borrowed blouse and bra to the side. The ground beneath them reformed, under its own primal magic, into a comfortable pallet for their care of each other.

 

He kissed the crook of her elbow, mere inches above the blood purity “tattoo” — “ _I’m_  sorry…”

 

As she lay, head lazily turned to give him easy access, she missed his mapping of her body but did not miss the easing of the torment from the  _Crucio_. Pain receded; her arm no longer troubled her — thanks to _whatever_ he was doing, _whatever_ was happening between them right now.

 

He kissed the scabbed scar sweeping across her midsection, barely healed from the potions she’d taken — “ _I’m sorry_ …”

 

Within the shield charm that protected them both, gold and silver sprites danced in a breeze created by the beating of their tiny diaphanous wings, drying the sweat from the lover’s skin as it formed.

Hermione charmed their remaining clothes away as Draco crawled up her battered body.

 

“Whatever you want, Lioness…”

“I… I need to be on top. Is that alright?”

 

He rolled her, using the gentle pressure of his arms to cushion the move. At the same moment, changes underneath them sprouted a thick, cushioning field of clover and two easy slopes behind his back and his knees — the better for Hermione in her recuperating state; gravity would assist their making this night.

They’d never done this: Draco’d been raised to  ** _never_**  relinquish control. Hermione’s timidity in sexual choices — not to mention the  _war_  — kept their encounters strictly missionary. Together under the stars — and experiencing their first peaceful moments in  _months_ , he gifted his submission to her to begin atonement for the fucking coward he’d been since she’d known him. Right now, Hermione-Something-Granger evidenced the purist blood Draco’d ever known; he couldn't remember the last pure-blood who’d survived Bella’s  _Crucio_  while spewing lies like a Slytherin.

Supporting and guiding her with his manicured fingers, her Slytherin partner smiled as her heat and wetness drifted onto his cock (where it lay against his stomach); she was ready for him without a touch to her more sensitive parts. Still, he hesitated — 

 

“Do you need more?…” he asked in yet another tone he’d never used with her before.

"No, Dragon,” and she let gravity take her deeply into pleasure and him into redemption.

 

Her pace would have them joined for hours with no risk of his release — something else to thank his fast-learning witch for — and his surrender to this position provided ample opportunity to attend to the most aroused parts of her without fighting his own body’s urgency for orgasmic release.

His hands — kneading her thighs, stroking her nub where they joined, massaging her ribs or rubbing her stiff nipples — lifted the burden of soreness from her like a healer would. His concerted effort replaced the ache of injury with the easy ascent to climax, rocking their nether regions together for her pleasure. Satisfaction spread through her — like a good stretch or the release of too-tight muscles — over and over until Hermione leaned forward, captured Draco’s lips and gave him silent permission to finish them both.

 

Draco’d never been so happy to cum in his entire miserable existence.

 

“I have to go back…” she reminded them both hours later, when the bright moon passed its zenith.

“I know,” he whispered, with a nibble to the ear he could reach without disturbing her place on his chest.

“It was worth it…”

 

Not attuned to her random musings (or anyone else’s, really…), Draco waited out her silence.

 

“If we lose… If I die in this war… It will all be worth it. We’ve made something beautiful tonight.”

“Don’t let it go to your tainted-blood head that I let you have my pure-blood body.”

 

Satisfied that both were in a better place, the Slytherin prat grinned at the Gryffindor warrior's forgiveness for his lack of Potter-like bravery.

 

“Shut it, Ferret,” Hermione grinned into his neck.

 

After an awful,  _awful_  year, Draco acknowledged the seeds of healing planted under the shimmering glow of primal magic made by the Cowardly Cockroach and his Know-It-All Mudblood.

 


End file.
